


The 7th Day of Christmas: "Santa Baby"

by jacksqueen16



Series: Destiel Smut Brigade 12 Days of Christmas Challenge [7]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Bottom Cas, Bunker Feels, Cas has a thing for Santa, Christmas, Couch Sex, Destiel Smut Brigade, Drinking Games, Endearments, Enochian, Established Relationship, Frottage, M/M, Oral Sex, PWP, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rimming, Santa hats, Tickle Fights, Top Dean, red satin boxers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-02 07:36:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2804642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jacksqueen16/pseuds/jacksqueen16
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Red satin, Dean?” asks Cas, in a low grumbling voice that loosens every knot in Dean’s muscles and fills every bit of him with longing. Dean glances down at the brightly colored underwear. Another gag gift from Charlie.</p><p>He shrugs. “Satin is comfortable.” </p><p>“Satin is enticing. Satin is...titillating,” Cas corrects in that same low tone as he pulls down his own boxers. “It is silky clouds and sweet earth. It…” Cas pauses, a grin stealing over his prurient expression. He reaches past Dean and plucks the Santa hat from the corner of the TV. “It matches this.” He plants the hat squarely on Dean’s head.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The 7th Day of Christmas: "Santa Baby"

**Author's Note:**

> All mistakes are mine!

The bunker is warm. The beer in Dean’s hand is cold. Castiel’s head is solid against Dean’s thigh. Bruce Willis is being a badass on the TV, and Sam is sound asleep in his room. The smell of sugar cookies and cinnamon and chocolate permeates the air, accented by the sharp clean scent of the Christmas tree in the corner of the room. A lazy fire roars sleepily in the fireplace.

Dean hasn’t felt this safe in years. He hadn’t been this _happy_ in years. The last time he had a Christmas like this, he’d been a kid without a care in the world. Back then, there had been no demons, no angels, no Mark of Cain. There had only been his parents and baby Sammy and the promise of presents on Christmas day.

He lets his fingertips drag absently through Castiel’s hair as he takes another swig of beer. “I do not understand this game,” says Cas abruptly, turning his head and disrupting Dean’s hand.

Dean looks down at the angel and meets his steady gaze. “What don’t you get?”

Cas gestures at the TV. “Did you not explain earlier that you would take a drink if a person’s head on screen fit into the corner where Sam placed the Santa Claus hat?”

“Yeah.”

“But you just took a drink now, and no one appears to be wearing the Santa Claus hat.”

“It’s just a drinking game,” Dean says, chuckling. It had been Sam’s idea a few years back, and was one of the ways that Christmas was slowly creeping back into their lives. If you could call it a Christmas tradition, which Dean definitively did. “The rules don’t prevent you from drinking at any time. You’re only in trouble if the hat is on someone’s head and you don’t drink. Get it?”

Cas settles his head back in its original position. “I suppose so.”

A moment passes before he interrupts again. “Are you certain this is a Christmas film?”

“It started on Christmas Eve, didn’t it? It counts.”

“ _Die Hard_ hardly seems to have the Christmas spirit. I think that Sam was correct in saying that _It’s A Wonderful Life_ is a better example of a holiday film,” Cas sounds convinced.

“Shut it, Cas,” Dean growls out. “John McClane is about to do something important.”

Cas laughs, and nips at the jean-clad leg beneath his head, and Dean is shocked at the playfulness. Castiel has been coming out his awkward celestial shell since their friendship turned into something deeper, but this is a new side of him. Dean suddenly doesn’t care about Hans Gruber or his henchmen, or the upcoming explosion. He sets the beer down on the side table, planning his attack.

“ _Miracle on 34th Street_ also embodies—eeep!” Cas yelps as Dean runs his hands down Cas’s ribs, searching for ticklish spots, finding several under Cas’s arms and on his belly. Castiel laughs every laugh imaginable, and Dean catalogues each giggle and chortle. “Stop, stop!” Cas guffaws his plea, batting half-heartedly at Dean’s wandering, frisky fingers. He sits up, and grabs for Dean’s knees, groping him just above the kneecap.

Dean cries out in surprise, his laughter joining the angel’s. “Hey! Stop it. How did you know where I was ticklish?” he asks as they roll off the sofa, the tickle fight escalating. He has Cas pinned, and is moving his fingers under the hideous Christmas sweater Charlie gave him. His hands stroke mischievously and Cas’s muscles clench deliciously beneath him.

“Angel,” Cas replies simply, thrusting his hands under Dean’s armpits, where he is the most sensitive.

“Not fair!” Dean gasps for air through each laugh, the tickling now bordering on the edge of painful. Cas flips them over, stradling Dean’s hips. “Okay, okay, I surrender!”

Cas grins at him, cheeky, flushed in his victory. It’s hard sometimes for Dean to remember that this is the same man who was— _is_ —a seasoned warrior with Grace beyond belief, especially when he smiles like that, like there is no one in the world except the two of them. Dean’s chest fills up with something hot, burning, aching, and he pulls the angel down for a kiss.

The shouts on the TV fade to nothingness as their mouths slide against each other. Cas braces himself with a hand on each side of Dean’s head, and Dean tugs him closer. He would have a hard time admitting it out loud, but he loves being pushed down, surrounded by the angel, having that comforting weight cage him in. His fingers cradle Cas’s jaw, the stubble there prickling against his skin. He wants to feel the roughness on every part of him, and sighs into Cas’s mouth as his groin melts into something molten, something he’s never felt with anyone else.

Cas’s tongue seems to be everywhere—stroking against Dean’s, then suddenly lapping at the hollow of his throat. Dean groans at the snatches of wet heat against him, wondering if he can talk Cas into giving him a hickey at some point. He feels Cas’s sharp teeth nibble on his clavicle and his vision goes black with need for a lovely, dark moment.

“Cas,” he mumbles against the angel’s cheek, trying to capture his lips again. “C’mere.”

“Your skin,” Cas replies, licking a stripe on Dean’s ear, “it tastes like galaxies and starbursts.”

“I don’t know what the hell that means,” Dean pants, “but it sounds so fucking sexy when you say it.”

Their mouths crash together again as Dean rocks up into Cas’s crotch, their hardening lengths knocking against together. They sway against each other for a moment, their movements instinctively matching up with the thrust of Dean’s tongue in Cas’s mouth. But as much as Dean likes a good old-fashioned dry hump, he already knows he wants more. His fingers trail down from Cas’s face to his chest, pausing to find and pinch a nipple through the bulky sweater, before undoing the angel’s trousers. Cas catches on quickly enough, pulling back to quickly undress himself. Dean takes the opportunity to do the same, shedding his plaid shirt and dark jeans. His hands are on the waistband of his boxes when he realizes that Cas is staring at him.

“Red satin, Dean?” asks Cas, in a low grumbling voice that loosens every knot in Dean’s muscles and fills every bit of him with longing. Dean glances down at the brightly colored underwear. Another gag gift from Charlie.

He shrugs. “Satin is comfortable.”

“Satin is enticing. Satin is...titillating,” Cas corrects in that same low tone as he pulls down his own boxers. “It is silky clouds and sweet earth. It…” Cas pauses, a grin stealing over his prurient expression. He reaches past Dean and plucks the Santa hat from the corner of the TV. “It matches this.” He plants the hat squarely on Dean’s head.

Dean knows that he must look ridiculous, the cheap hat lopsided over his brow, the satin much too shiny in the combined light of the TV and the fireplace, and him hard as a rock on top of it. He crosses his arms over his bare chest, and smiles anyway, because Cas is obviously pleased, and he loves seeing Cas pleased even more than he likes a successful hunt, or even a good cheeseburger. Cas’s smile is everything.  

“Is there not a song entitled _Santa Baby_?” Cas asks, his grin as wide as Sam’s whenever Dean consumes a vegetable.

“There is,” Dean confirms. He nods his head redundantly just to see if the fluffy tip of the hat will swing around.

There is a breath of hesitation as Cas’s features return to their typical contemplative darkness. Dean feels the pull in the air, the need to be a part of Cas, if only for a moment. “You like to call me baby,” Cas says. It isn’t a question.

Dean swallows thickly. They haven’t ever talked about endearments, but he knows he murmurs them to Cas when they’re alone, in the heat of the moment, often without meaning to. “I do.”

“Say it now,” Cas commands, and Dean knows he would do anything the angel asked.

He steps closer, eliminating personal space. Their naked chests brush against each other, and Castiel’s stiff cock grazes against his satin boxes. He lowers his mouth to Cas’s shoulder and presses a kiss. “Baby…” he whispers. Cas shudders.

He takes Cas’s hands and places them on the waistband of the boxers. “Baby...” he breaths against Cas’s lips.

He waits, until the boxers are gone and his cock is free, to whisper in Cas’s ear. “Let me make it good for you, baby…”

Cas’s formidable exterior is slowly melting away as he nods, pulling Dean down onto the couch. Dean is vaguely aware that he is still wearing the Santa hat, but Cas is spread out before him, and he really doesn’t give a fuck about anything else.

He kneels between Cas’s thighs, pulling him flush against the edge of the couch. Pushing Cas’s legs up over his shoulders, he wastes no time before pressing his face into Cas’s crotch. He licks one long strip against the underside of the stiff, leaking prick before him, absorbing the noise that emanates from Cas’s mouth into his very soul. He sucks the tip of the cock into his mouth for just a moment, stroking it with his tongue before letting it go with a pop. Cas is already a shivering mess from that alone, and Dean smirks before licking lightly as Cas’s balls and perineum in an imitation of their earlier tickling touches. Cas’s laugh is breathy, intermingled with gasps of pleasure and words that Dean cannot understand.

A hand lands on his head, knocking the hat off, grasping in his hair, pushing his face lower, and Dean can feel his pulse speeding up. This is his favorite part. And Cas’s too, he’s learned. He nudges his nose softly against Cas’s puckered hole before pressing his lips to it. His own cock thickens even more, hot and heavy between his legs, as he kisses Cas in the most intimate way possible. He licks and sucks until Cas begins to relax, his muscles loosening enough for Dean to work the tip of his tongue through. He is about to slip his index finger in, when he remembers that they are missing something.

“Um, Cas?” he mutters. “We may need to move this upstairs.”

“Doubtful,” replies Cas, his voice deep with need. “Check my pants pocket.”

Dean pulls away for a moment to locate the small bottle of lube. “Were you planning on seducing me tonight?” he winks at Cas lasciviously as he lubes up his fingers.

Cas looks as though he means to answer in English, but the words that spill from his lips as Dean thrusts two fingers into his ass are decidedly Enochian. He grunts as Dean locates his prostate. “Please, please,” he manages to croak out. “Now, Dean.”

Dean slicks his cock up with lube, taking a moment to stroke himself and admire Cas as the angel rearranges himself on the sofa so that there is more room. The creature looks wrecked, hair in wild disarray, lips red and swollen, cock ruddy and inviting. “Merry Christmas to me,” whispers Dean.

Within seconds he is settled between Cas’s legs, his cock nudging at his entrance. He swipes at the hole, wet with spit and lube before guiding himself in. Working past the ring of muscle, he slides in easily. “Christ,” he groans as Cas pulls him closer for a kiss. Their hips move in tandem, Cas meeting him thrust for thrust. Everything is heat and perfection and lips and tongues and Dean cannot think of anything better.

He loses himself in Castiel, hands gripping and grasping, holding closer and closer. But he can never get close enough, he realizes, as he fucks Cas into the cushions. There will always be a want, a need for more.

The angel presses a kiss to his temple. “Don’t think so hard,” is whispered against his cheek. Dean isn’t sure how he understands it, but he does.

He grips Cas’s hips, his fingers digging into bone as their bodies slap and grind together. Cas’s eyes are half-closed with pleasure as he fists his own cock. “More,” he whispers.

“Yes baby, yes…” Dean groans as he quickens the pace. Castiel comes with a shout, his semem coating his chest. Dean doesn’t hold back his own orgasm, shuddering against his lover as stars expand and collapse behind his eyelids.

Dean crumples against Castiel’s chest, unwilling to sever their connection just yet. The angel kisses his forehead and wraps his arms around him, indulgent.

“Merry Christmas, Dean Winchester.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> A very Merry Christmas to the ladies of the Destiel Smut Brigade! As always, lovely to be included in a challenge with you. 
> 
> A special thank you to dearcollectress for giving me this plot bunny that exploded into 2000 words of smut. xoxo.


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